Telesa - The Covenant Keeper (21 page)

I too kept my eyes on the road ahead and shrugged non-comittally. “Maybe.”

Encouraged, she continued. “If you’re free this afternoon then, I’d like you to come visit me at my home, have some tea, give us a chance to talk. Clear things up. You must have some questions for me.”

Again she dangled the lure of information in front of me. She knew that was the one promise I couldn’t resist. Questions I had a-plenty. And yes, the chance to clear the mass of confusion that plagued me overcame all my apprehension about this woman.

“That would be okay. I mean, I’m free now. I’m ready to do this today.” Silently, I thanked Daniel. If it hadn’t been for our conversation at break, for his advice, there’s no way I would have been in any state to sit and talk to this strangely frightening woman this way.

There was no more conversation for the remainder of the drive. She drove with practiced ease, while I studied our surroundings with interest. I’d been in the country now for over two months and still hadn’t left Apia. School, church and the shops were the full extent of my sightseeing. Oh, and my night pool escape. And the mountainside river with Daniel. His mysterious secret place. The memory brought a little smile to my face. And another welcome boost of courage. To still the panic.

Where were we going? We whipped through town, turned at the Mormon temple and continued inland. Up winding roads. Which got greener as we went along. And the land sloped upward. The few houses were bigger, more stately, more further apart. Set back from the road, behind cement walls and lined with palms. Still we drove on. Now the road was emptier and the houses rare occurrences. We turned off the main tar seal onto another road and continued climbing upward and inward. There were no houses here, just thick, lush forest. Massive trees spread their arms above us, laced with ferns and hanging vines. Colorful birds regarded us solemnly as we drove past. I looked back and saw the coast splayed out behind us and the line of the horizon lancing the blueness. Finally, the car slowed beside an imposing set of gates. The woman pushed on a remote and the gates swung open quietly. We had arrived at my mother’s house. My breath was an indrawn surprise.

A long driveway curved ahead of us, embraced by trees. The woman gestured,

“Flame trees. They flower in December, and then it’s just one long continuous line of crimson and orange. Stunning.”

We drove slowly up the drive. Stretching away to my right was a vast expanse of garden, careful rows of greenery that marched endlessly away to the hills. It looked like fruit trees, herb bushes, and further away, vegetables, perhaps?

To the left was a rich riot of flowering forest, a cacophony of color. I recognized some favorites but many more had me puzzled. Frangipani trees of every color, hibiscus bushes, thickets of torch ginger, a multitude of bougainvillea. It danced on forever, in the distance I thought I caught the sparkle of water, a river? It was glorious. And for someone who loved plants as much as I did – almost paradisiacal. I couldn’t hide my delight.

“It’s beautiful. This is amazing. How do you, who looks after all of this – there must be acres and acres of it!”

The woman smiled with satisfaction as she too looked out over the surroundings. “One hundred and twenty acres in fact. It goes all the way to the crest of the mountain. I have
ifilele
and
poumuli
forest in that direction, mixed with taro and bananas. But here are my flowers, and where I get all the food for the house, and the plants for my medicines. It’s all organic and completely self-sustaining. There’s no chemicals anywhere on my estate. The orchid collection is at the back of the house. Wait until you see that.”

I turned bemused eyes on this woman who was supposed to be my mother. Less than an hour in her company and already I had the answer to one question – the origins of my plant obsession. I shook my head slowly. Someone who loved plants this much surely couldn’t be that bad, could she?

I dragged my attention from the greenery and looked ahead to the house that was pulling into view. And gasped again. It was a colonial mansion straight from a southern belle movie. The car eased to a stop and I got out, mouth agape. Stately columns graced the wide veranda that encircled the white wooden two-storey structure. The ground floor seemed to have no walls as panelled accordion doors graced the full length of three sides. On this afternoon, they were all open, welcoming in the mountain air. You could clearly see the interior, the curved staircase. The chandelier that sparkled in the sunshine. The ornate bamboo furniture with its cinnamon cushions and wine red throw pillows. Traditional
elei
patterned drapes embraced each doorway. My eyes did all the talking as I walked up the stairs behind her and into the house. There was music playing somewhere unseen, a pitcher of lemon water called from a stained
ifilele
wood table, nuggets of ice dotted with slices of green. A platter of cut fruit. It all looked so inviting. Welcoming. Like the woman had been expecting company, like she had anticipated my acceptance of her invitation. Her confidence, assurance, made me grimace slightly. She gestured to the kitchen counter sink, “Would you like to wash up before some refreshments, Leila? You do prefer the name Leila, don’t you?”

I nodded silently as I scrubbed my hands free of school-day grime before joining her at the table. She passed me a plate and I helped myself to slices of papaya and mango. She continued. “So how long have you been here in Samoa?”

“Two months.” The lemonade made me brave. “I came to find out about my dead mother. But nobody seemed to want to talk about you. Why do you suppose that is?” My gaze was confrontational, my tone like steel.

She was not fazed in the slightest. She took a slow bite of mango before answering. “I suppose because, as you can see, I am not dead. I am very much alive.” She threw a jab of her own. “And tell me, Leila, what of your father? How is it that you are here and he is not?”

I strove to be as calm and collected as she. Even now. As thoughts of my father pierced me like coral slashing through my heart. Red and ragged. “My father is dead. For real. He died eight months ago. Brain tumour.”

I wanted to see her flinch. To see her hurt. To see her shocked at least. I was disappointed. She smoothed an errant wisp of hair from her cheek and her eyes were thoughtful but distant. “I am sorry for your loss Leila. I cannot imagine how you must have felt. How you must have struggled. Do you have family watching over you? A stepmother perhaps?”

“No. My dad never remarried. It was just the two of us.”

Again, she betrayed no emotion. She was polite and cool. One would think we were discussing a complete stranger to her – not a man she had loved and had children with. Coldness gripped me on this sun filled day. My father may have lied to me about my mother being dead, but I knew he had been honestly and completely in love with her. Of that I was sure. And to find that she did not seem to return the emotion seemed even more chilling then finding her alive when she should have been dead.

“So Leila, without a father and, it seems, a mother, who was taking care of you?”

I bristled. “I’m eighteen years old, Nafanua. I haven’t needed anyone to take care of me for a while.”

She laughed. Quietly. “I apologize Leila, let me rephrase that, I mean, did your father have no family to be your guardians?”

I nodded. “Yes, his mother, my Grandmother Folger. Before I came here, I was staying with her.”

“Oh and how did she feel about your trip to Samoa? She just allowed you to fly halfway round the world by yourself?” There was sincere puzzlement in the woman’s eyes.

“Well, she didn’t like the idea. But she trusted my judgment,” The lie came easily.

“I see. And your aunt and uncle, how has your stay with them been?”

“Fine. They’re a lovely couple. I’ve been going to school, Samoa College, since I got here.”

“My old school, once upon a time! So, what do you think of our country?”

“Well, I haven’t seen very much of it really. Just school, church, home. A few trips to town. Aunty Matile really didn’t want me going anywhere. Now we know why.”

I was impatient with the conversation. I had come for answers and so far she had been asking all the questions. I struggled to regain control of the afternoon. “Nafanua, why did my father lie to me? Why did he tell me you were dead?”

There was stillness. Outside, a slight breeze slipped through the trees and, faraway, birds called. I studied the woman in white seated across from me at the table, waiting for her response. She took care with her words. “I have not spoken to your father since before the hurricane. He left and took you with him without warning. Without my knowledge. Without my consent. He left. And I never saw you again. Do you know what that was like Leila? For me? For a mother? I knew that he loved you, I knew that he would be a good father to you, but do not expect me to speak well of the man who took my only daughter from me and then kept her from me for eighteen years!” Her voice had raised a chilling octave and I felt a coldness in the room. Abruptly, the afternoon sun darkened as if storm clouds had moved overhead, and there was a distant rumble of thunder. Nafanua continued before I could find words to fill the silence. “Leila, I do not wish to desecrate your memories of your father. I can see that you loved him very much and I am thankful that you had a good life with him. The problems that he and I had – they were between a man and a woman. A husband and a wife. He did me a great wrong by stealing you and taking you away from me. For that, I can never forgive him. But that shouldn’t color what you shared with him. I look at you, a beautiful young woman, and I am just so grateful that you chose to return. I am hoping that I can now have that chance to know my daughter, I am hoping that it’s not too late.” Tears glistened on her cheeks as she turned away from me to gaze outdoors where a light rain was falling.

I was speechless. I had come prepared for battle. For interrogation. I had stockpiled anger, resentment, and bitterness. I had strategized attack plans for confronting haughtiness, coldness, possessive pride, but this? This, I was not ready for. I had nothing in my armoury for sadness. Pain. Loss. Grief. Hurt. Hope.

Nafanua stood and walked to a side table, returning with an album. “Here. Pictures of you. Of us. Before. They are all I have of you. Your father never wrote to me, never called. Eighteen years and these are all I have of you.”

Without words, I took the album and carefully turned the pages. There I was. Sitting on her lap. Lying on a mat under the shade of a frangipani tree. Peeking from the arms of a richly beautiful Nafanua, grabbing at the red flower in her hair. A little brown baby with a shock of thick hair. Even then I had the bushy eyebrows and the sour expression. I turned puzzled eyes to the woman beside me.

“But where is my brother? How come he’s not in the photos?”

For the first time, Nafanua looked unsettled. “How do you know about him? Did your father tell you?”

“No. Aunty Matile said I was a twin. I have, I had a brother. Who died when we were only a few months old. Before my dad took me away with him.”

Nafanua relaxed slightly. “Yes. There were two of you.” Another sad smile. “Twins. What a shock that was for me, let me tell you! They say a mother is supposed to know what she carries growing inside her, but I was completely caught by surprise that night. You were born on the beach, you know. There was a light rain, a cool sea breeze. I remember it was high tide because the water was catching on my legs when you finally came.” Her eyes took on a faraway gaze. “I didn’t know then why I wanted to give birth on the beach. I had prepared a birth house in the forest, with all my favorite plants around me. I wanted gardenia to be the first fragrance that you tasted, there was golden
mosooi
flowers to rub on your skin with the coconut oil. Everything was ready, but that night when the pains started, something called me to the ocean. Of course, your father, he wanted us to go to the hospital, ah” she shook her head impatiently at the memory. “But what does a man know of birth? I went to the beach while he fetched the
taulasea
. There were dolphins there, you know. Silver ones. Waiting for me. For him.” Her voice had trailed away so softly that I couldn’t be sure of her last words. Her? Him? I hardly dared breathe, unwilling to break this spell of reminiscing, wanting to hear the story of my birth. And my brother’s birth. “I should have known what they wanted. I should have suspected then that the boy was coming. But I wasn’t listening, I wasn’t thinking. I had felt your strength, your warmth, I knew you before you came. And that was all I was focused on. So when that boy was born, he was a shock. To all of us.” Nafanua was quiet for so long that I was forced to prompt her.

“What happened to him Nafanua? What happened to my brother?”

She shrugged. “It wasn’t meant to be. He was not meant to live. He was not strong enough. That happens sometimes with twins. At four months, I knew he would not live. But your father, he did not take it well. That’s when things went bad between us. Again, I should have seen it coming. I should have known that he might take you away. But again I was not focusing. I had other concerns on my mind. And so, one day, I went out to a meeting with my sisters and he insisted on keeping you home with him. And when I returned, you were gone. He had it all arranged – the airline tickets, the temporary passport, everything.” There was unwilling admiration in her voice. “He concealed his plans from me very well. I underestimated him. And so, he took you away.”

“Did you ever try to see me? To contact me? To get me back?” There was pleading in my question. Hidden under nonchalance.

“Of course. But the might of American bureaucracy is stronger than a single Samoan woman who has lost hold of her baby. Your father was not without his connections. I could never get a visa to the States. No matter how hard I tried.”

I thought of Grandmother Folger. I thought of her might, her steel resolve, her money, her willpower – and I could well believe Nafanua. A blanket of heavy sadness came to rest over me. My dad had lied to me. My dad had stolen me away from my mother. I knew I should have felt anger. But there was none. I had questions that would probably never be answered now that he was gone, but it was impossible to summon hatred or venom when all I felt whenever I thought of him was love. Longing. Grief. I hung my head, focusing on the picture in front of me. I recognized this one – it was the photo my grandmother had sent me, but someone had cut it in half, leaving only the proudly beautiful woman and the baby. I shrugged to myself, I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that Nafanua hadn’t wanted to keep a reminder of the man that had kidnapped her child.